Young Master Massimo
by roseflower19
Summary: Prequel to The Thief Lord through Scipio's perspective


_Young Master Massimo_

 _Disclaimer: All characters and story are property of Cornelia Funke._

"Give me my money back!" Scipio grabbed the boy with the spiky blond hair like a hedgehog by the jacket. It wasn't Scipio's money, really; it was his father's, and, if he knew it went missing, he would have everyone in the house punished.

"No! We need it to live off of," the boy replied, showing off a mouthful of rotten and missing teeth, and backing into the boxes in the narrow alleyway. "Let me go! Let me go, or I'll set my friends on you!"

"Oh really? All right, I'll let you go, and I'll even let you keep the money, on one condition—you take me to meet your friends." Were they street rats as well? Perhaps he could find a way to help them.

"Sounds fair enough."

Letting the boy go, Scipio trailed behind him through the alleyways and winding back passages of Venice until they reached Castello, near the island's easternmost edge. The boy stopped in front of a weather-beaten, decaying old house. Several windowpanes were missing, the door was hanging off its hinges, and it looked nearly as precarious as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. "That's where you live?" Scipio asked. It was nothing like Fondamenta Bollani 223, tall, stately, with courtyards, arched windows, and large brass doorknockers, the grandeur reflected in the canal below.

"Yes," the boy said, doubling up and coughing. "I'm all right," he said finally, straightening up. It was no wonder he was sick, living in a dump like this.

Moving up the steps, the hedgehog pushed aside the door and motioned for Scipio to follow; they passed torn-up rooms, mold forming on the walls where the rain had seeped through. Scipio's nose wrinkled in disgust. The basement was little better, two other figures hunched on the wet floor. A boy and a girl—the boy had black hair and nearly black skin, and the girl had brown hair pulled into a braid that reached her waist, looking like a stinger. Both wore filthy clothes and looked like they hadn't had a proper meal in months. They huddled closer together when they noticed Scipio.

"I'm Riccio," the hedgehog said, "and he's Mosca, and she's Hornet. Guys, this is—"

"Scipio." He tried to sound strong and confident, like his father. His father—He surely wouldn't notice if Scipio took the three of them to the Stella; nobody ever went there. The theatre had been declared unsafe, but it looked much safer than this dump.

"You can't live in a rathole like this," Scipio said. "I'll take you someplace better."

"Where?" Hornet asked.

"Pack your things, and I'll show you. Come on."

Scipio waited around for them to pick up their belongings—old comic books and regular books, a toolbox and fishing rods, a radio, and so many stuffed animals he could hardly walk without bumping into things as he carried the box up the stairs. "Will you at least _tell_ us where we're going?" Mosca asked.

"You'll see."

Scipio finally set down the box of stuffed animals outside a metal door set into a wall in a narrow passage, which read " _VIETATO INGRESSO_ "—No entry. Ignoring the sign, he pulled out two paperclips and picked the lock. The door swung open into a dark passageway. Grabbing the cord by the door, Scipio gave it two tugs, waited a moment, and tugged again. "That'll be our secret ring. Don't open the door unless you hear that, okay?" They needed some way to keep safe, in case his father or anyone else did come. The others nodded, peering down the passageway; picking up the box, Scipio led the way until they reached a musty old curtain, which he pulled aside before flicking a switch.

Lights around the walls flickered on, illuminating old wire cables sticking out where chandeliers used to be, plaster peeling from the ceiling and the three rows of seats each missing a few chairs. In front of the movie screen was a velvety blue curtain embroidered with stars. "Welcome," Scipio proclaimed, "to the Star Palace."  
"How did you find this place?" Hornet asked.

He couldn't tell them the truth. After all, they had been living little more than a rathole, and he, in a mansion. "When I stole something, I was nearly caught, but luckily I found this place to hide in."

"You're a thief?" Mosca asked with new respect.

"Yes." The lies began sliding off his tongue more and more. "I ran away from an orphanage when I was eight, and a big thief took me in and taught me everything about stealing. He's kicked the bucket, but, by then, I already could live pretty well on my own."

"I used to be in an orphanage, too." Riccio shuddered. "It was horrible. The _Carabinieri_ were after me because I couldn't stop stealing things."

"The _Carabinieri_ won't get you here," Scipio assured him. With luck, they wouldn't. "Make yourselves comfortable, and barricade the front entrance. I'll be back tonight."

Late that night, after everyone else in the Fondamenta Bollani 223 was either gone or asleep, Scipio was already dressed in his black coat, boots, and bird mask from earlier in the day and attempting to row down the canal in Mosca's rotten boat, piled up with mattresses and blankets from his parents' attic—they wouldn't notice if they were gone. The mattresses were too heavy, and the boat nearly capsized twice. By the time he moored it outside the Stella, he was soaked. They had to appreciate this.

Pulling the mattresses to the emergency exit—he'd need help to get them in—he rang the bell and waited. "Scip!" Riccio greeted him when he cracked open the door. Scipio answered with an icy glare. Nobody called him that.

"Well, aren't you going to help?" he asked, picking up a corner of a mattress.

Together, they hauled the mattresses into the auditorium, where the others laid them out and piled their things around them. "Hey, wait a minute," Hornet said. "There are only three mattresses. Aren't you going to stay here, too, Scipio?"

He shook his head. She offered a much nicer alternative to dodging his father all the time, but Dottor Massimo would likely lock him in his room for a week if he found out. "No. I'll be out of the city for a few days. Meanwhile, could you perhaps look around at the Palazzo...Ducale? They're due for a visit."

"The Doge's Palace?" Mosca cried. "Are you mad?"

"I'm quite confident I will be able to handle it," Scipio replied silkily. "You may want to clean up some; this place is like a pigsty. Goodnight."

Unfortunately, Scipio's plans were interrupted by his lessons, so he couldn't get back to the Stella until Saturday, much later than he'd planned. "Scipio," Mosca said, "I still think you're nuts."

"What were things like?" Scipio asked, waving away Mosca's concerns. A slight jitter settled in his own stomach at the idea of breaking into the Doge's Palace, but something could be arranged later. He had to build up his reputation for them, so they'd think his story was true.

"Man, they have dogs; big dogs with teeth this long. They could bite through your hand," Mosca said.

"And the security is so tight, there's _no_ way you'll get in," Riccio said. "But it looks like the stuff in there is probably worth a lot."

"Then that'll make it worth it." Scipio poked his finger through the eye hole in his mask. "You need money, don't you?"

No one had anything to say to that.

"So, the raid is scheduled for tonight. I'll bring the loot tomorrow."

Scipio sat at the edge of his bed, shifting uneasily. The shadows passed over the walls of his room. They thought he really could break into the Doge's Palace, but he couldn't, not without getting caught and sent to jail. Perhaps some old things from around here would do; nobody used half of the things in the house. He stood up quietly, pausing when the bed creaked. Nobody stirred.

Feeling like his cat when she stalked after mice, Scipio tiptoed to the door, wincing when it creaked open. No footsteps, no angry voice telling him to go back to bed. Across the hall, in his father's study, a large drawstring bag poked out from over the desk—perfect for storing loot. Moving about the house, he gathered whatever looked like it might belong in the Doge's Palace—old silver chalices and spoons, large gold medallions, an unused velvet cloak, even a thick, leather-bound book with a gold-embossed title and silk end pages, which had never been opened. He cast over his shoulders every few steps, pausing when his father rolled over in his sleep. As soon as he reentered his room with the loot, he breathed a sigh of relief. Storing the bag under his bed, he drew the covers up and finally fell asleep.

Riccio, Hornet, and Mosca clustered around Scipio, watching with bated breath while he tipped the contents of the bag out. "Oh, my," Hornet breathed, leafing through the book.

"Hey, look at me!" Mosca threw the cloak around his shoulders and striding around. "All hail Scipio, the Thief Lord!" He bowed low to Scipio, who smiled. He _had_ found his place in their gang.

"So tell us, Scip," Riccio said, "how'd you get in?"

Scipio had gone over his story a hundred times, but it made it no easier to say. "Well, they didn't have any dogs—"

"Yeah," Mosca admitted, "I lied about that part. I didn't want you breaking in."

"Let him finish," Hornet said.

"They did have regular guards, but none of them saw me. One was even sleeping on the job. I'll wager his boss would've been none too happy. And the security system was pretty tight, but, if you know how to work them, they're a piece of cake—no one even heard the alarm. I nearly got caught, but, in a place that size, there are lots of places to hide. I even stole the cloak from under the guard's nose without him waking up. Hell, I probably could've stolen his underwear and not gotten caught." The auditorium exploded with laughter. The Thief Lord. What a grand name.

Finally, Hornet calmed down enough to say, "Where will we sell the loot?"

"Take it to Ernesto Barbarossa's Antique Store—he's the only one who'll do business with you. Don't mention me by name, only as the Thief Lord." If his father, who occasionally did business there, found out Scipio had sold the family's stolen things there—Scipio would never hear the end of it.

"Scipio, do you wish you were grown up?" Mosca asked suddenly.

Of course he did. Then Dottor Massimo could never push him around again. But the gang had risked their lives to escape grown-ups, and they could do so much more as children without being noticed.

"Think of it this way," Scipio said, "children are caterpillars and adults, butterflies. No butterfly ever remembers what it was like to be a caterpillar."

As the raids continued, it became Mosca and Riccio's job to scope out the _palazzo_ Scipio would next "visit," and they became known as "Scipio's eyes." It became the Thief Lord's job to steal, and the other members had to turn the loot into money at Barbarossa's, though they often complained that the redbeard took advantage of them. It would be just like him, money sticking to his hands like honey to a bear's paws.

One day, when Scipio entered the Stella through the private entrance, he stopped dead in the auditorium. Standing with the others were two boys he'd never met before, one about his age with dark hair and his arm around the other, five or six with blond hair; the older one looked more anxious than the younger one, probably his brother. "This is Prosper and Bo. I found them on the street, looking for food," Hornet said. "I couldn't let them starve. They said they ran away from their mean aunt and don't want to go back to her because she'll split them up. Please let them stay."

Why not? There was always room for more. Scipio would just have to face drowning again to get an extra mattress. "Sure," he said, nodding. "How long were you on the streets?" he asked them.

"A few weeks," Prosper said. "We—I—had to steal."

"Hornet said you're the best thief in Venice," Bo cut in, looking at Scipio with wonder. "She said you broke into the Doge's Palace."

"I sure did," Scipio said, smiling. "I can do all the stealing for you now. You won't have to worry about your aunt anymore, and you can stay as long as you like."


End file.
